


Tomorrow

by letthemysterybe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 01:22:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12422109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letthemysterybe/pseuds/letthemysterybe
Summary: Hermione never felt more fearless than when she was in the arms of the woman who’d once haunted her nightmares; she never felt further away from that crumbling shell of a girl who barely made it out of the war alive than when she was on her knees at the alter of the devil.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I wrote this a birthday gift for theheresto on tumblr over a year ago, and then I sort of forgot about it and never got around to editing it or posting it elsewhere until...right now. It's already complete but I'm splitting it into two parts because 1) it's too long and 2) I'm lazy and haven't edited the rest of it yet. Suuuuuuuuuuuuuuper smutty (eventually). 
> 
> Can exist in the same universe as/be considered a prequel for storms stir (which I haven't abandoned entirely and am currently working on, I promise!)

Two years after the war, and people slowly moved on with their lives.

Grief gave way to a dull but bearable ache, almost ignorable on some days, decidedly not on others, but most found ways to cope. To forget. To remember…but to live.

Life went on. Everyone played at normalcy.

Hermione Granger was grateful for this, mostly. She was grateful that the post-war media frenzy had finally died down, that the public had focused their attention on Ron and Harry as they began their Auror training and gave her space when she chose to return to Hogwarts for her seventh year.

She’d never been comfortable with the fame. The questions, the hero worship, the life under a microscope—it made her uneasy.

She was grateful for the unwavering support she received from Harry and Ron, when she finally broke down one day, sobbing and overwhelmed with the pressure, and by what she had come to realize was post-traumatic stress. They’d both held her and talked her down from the edge and reassured her that they’d do their best to bear the brunt of it. They didn’t crave the attention, but they didn’t mind it.

So the two of them jumped at every interview opportunity, every press conference, every chance to do something scandalous in public or anonymously pass along gossip fodder to Rita Skeeter in hopes of making it onto Page 5. And Hermione had learnt to laugh again, when she read about their ‘antics’ in the Daily Prophet.

_Trouble in Paradise: Golden Friendship on the Rocks? Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley Call it Quits, Ron Chooses Family over Friend_

Hermione very well knew that Ginny and Harry were practically engaged and as happy as ever, and that nothing as ridiculous as a breakup would ruin Ron and Harry’s bond.

And the there was the headline Hermione would never forget as long as she lived:

_Brother Lover? Harry Potter Leaves a Weasley for a Weasley: Ron and Harry’s Scandalous Secret_

(Harry and Ron had gone for drinks at the Leaky Cauldron and held hands the entire time. It was Ginny’s idea).

Hermione bought three copies and had them framed as Christmas presents.

She loved her boys.

After graduating Hogwarts with straight Outstandings, Hermione accepted an entry-level position at the Ministry and tried, just as everyone else had, to lead a normal life.

Some days were harder than others.

She hadn’t yet managed to track down her parents, and after spending a week living alone in her childhood home once she’d left school, Hermione realized she wasn’t ready to be on her own.

The dark brought back memories. The silence brought back death.

One night, as she turned off the lights and locked the front door on her way to bed, she bumped into a coat rack. A coat rack that, to her dark-fouled eyes and her trauma-addled brain was most definitely a death eater poised to attack.

So she made sure to attack first.

She flung spells at the thing until the wood was a flaming pile on her floor and until she could no longer breathe. Until she became a pile on the floor herself. Until she realized she was not okay.

Shemanaged, somehow, to apparate to The Burrow in tact, landing in the middle of the living room floor a sobbing, hyperventilating mess. Molly’d dropped her knitting at the sight of her. Ron and Harry abandoned their chess game and Ginny slammed down her copy of the Daily Prophet.

_(Weasleys Wed: Inside Ron and Harry’s Secret Ceremony)_

From that night forward they made sure Hermione never had to be alone.

She moved into The Burrow.

She woke up every morning to the smell of a mother’s cooking (even if it wasn’t her mother, it was something). She drank tea with Ginny and Floo’d to work with Ron and Harry. She read books by the fire as Molly knit silently beside her. And, to her surprise, she had long conversations about love and life with Fleur, whenever she and Bill came to visit.

Hermione came to wonder why she’d ever disliked the the woman in the first place. She was older enough to be wise and almost motherly, yet young enough to relate to in a way Hermione never could with the Weasley matriarch. She was a lot more gentle with her words than Ginny. And obviously, she was infinitely less dense than either Ron or Harry.

Hermione decided she’d probably been jealous. And maybe a little bit…confused. A veela could do that to a person, after all.

Fleur had laughed when Hermione tried to apologize for her hormone-fueled animosity.

 _“Tout ça, c'est du passé._ It’s in the past, Hermione. We are here now, yes?” She wrapped her arm around Hermione’s shoulder and placed a kiss atop her head.

“This is what matters.”

Hermione’s blush took a full ten minutes to die down. If Fleur noticed, she hadn’t mentioned it.

“Besides, is it not so silly?” She laughed her tinkling, beautiful laugh. “We may be sisters one day, yes?”

“Uhhh.”

Hermione flushed once more. Fleur raised an eyebrow.

If Hermione was overwhelmed by the public’s expectation for her to be perfect, she was doubly overwhelmed by her friends’ expectations regarding…this.

She’d used Hogwarts as an excuse, at first. Distance didn’t make for a good beginning to a relationship. When she’d moved to The Burrow it became more unavoidable: the touches, the sidelong glances, the knowing smirks from everyone around them. She’d finally told Ron one night that she wasn’t quite ready, that she hadn’t completely healed mentally or emotionally from the horrors they’d experienced, and he’d understood.

But he hadn’t _understood._ No one had.

They all knew she would heal, and that Ron would help her heal, and that once that had happened they would finally be together, because the were meant to be. It was expected. It was fated. They knew that Hermione just needed time, that she was just waiting until she was ready.

Except she wasn’t.

“I don’t love Ron,” she finally confessed for the first time out loud. Speaking it felt different. Liberating.

“I mean, I love him, but I don't—I’m not in love with him.”

Hermione held her breath when Fleur studied her for a long moment. Then blue eyes softened and warm arms drew her in.

“That’s okay.”

And those were the only words Hermione had ever wanted to hear, about everything. It was okay. She was okay. Everything would be okay.

She wasn’t broken. She wasn’t a terrible person. She just wasn’t in love with her best friend.

And that was okay. It would be okay.

Heartened by that talk, Hermione began to rebuild herself in earnest.

She walked taller, she smiled more, she gave herself permission love Ron exactly the way she did, reminding herself that there was nothing wrong with that, that she wasn’t leading him on. He was her brother, and so was Harry, and no matter what this initially did to their relationship, they would be there for each other in the end.

(Hermione hadn’t told him yet, though. Baby steps. All in good time.)

The days got easier. The sun shone brighter. Things began to feel routine and almost…normal.

Normal. It was a strange word to apply to this little life she had.

Hermione longed to be normal, most days. She tried her best to keep a low profile and lead the simplest of lives. She refused special treatment at the Ministry and trudged along at the bottom of the barrel, just like all the other interns in The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

But on a day like this one, Hermione wanted to scream at the top of her lungs that she had saved the world.

She wanted to ask everyone if they knew who she was, if they knew what she’d done, if they knew what it took to do it. She wanted to tell the next person that wordlessly threw a stack of paperwork in her face that she was too good for this, that she wasn’t just Hermione Granger—she was _Hermione Granger!_ The Golden Girl, The Brightest Witch of Her Age, one third of the Trio who did the impossible! _God Damn Hermione Fucking Straight O’s on Her NEWTS Killed a Snake Man And Looked Good Doing It Granger!_

She wouldn’t, but she wanted to.

Because she wasn’t sure how much more of it she could take. The tedium, the monotony, the _disrespect_ —the “Granger, can you distribute this memo?” “Granger, can you order our lunch?” “Granger, the boss needs his tea—and can you empty the trash while you’re at it?”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose as she opened the door to her cramped and windowless office, folder upon folder in her arms just waiting to be added to the looming pile on her desk; it was to be another thrilling afternoon of filing. Filing filing filing. Always filing. Transcribe this, proofread that, alphabetize, categorize—how about lobotomize? It would be an improvement. Her only excitement occurred when she got to _Incendio_ case files no longer deemed relevant or necessary. What a thrilling life she led. What a trail she blazed. What a—

She smelt her before she saw her.

Pine trees, cinnamon, a deceptively delicate hint of rose—the distinct aroma crept up her nose before the door had even shut behind her. Hermione froze, eyes darting to every corner of the tiny room, knowing it wasn’t possible but sure it couldn’t be anyone else—

Until a dark figure suddenly moved at the outskirts of her vision.

It leapt at her, slamming her back against the door before she could react, snapping one pale, cold hand over her mouth and pining her hands over her head with the other, sending her papers flying. Wild black curls obscured her vision as a velvety voice purred into her ear.

“Miss me, pet?”

A shiver shot up Hermione’s spine and she whimpered against the hands that held her hostage.

Invader pulled back to admire shivering prey.

White, glistening teeth smiled that cheshire smile. Pink tongue darted out to lick perfect, pouty lips. Inky curls framed that beautiful, angular face, and heavy lids blinked slowly over black, shining eyes.

Hermione was sure, in that moment, that no matter how hard she tried she would never be normal. Because normal people didn’t have secrets like this. Normal people didn't get held against doors by Bellatrix—

_”Black.” The witch had insisted on a balmy autumn night in the Forbidden Forest. “It’s Black. That asshole husband of mine is dead and if you’re about to kill me too I’d at least like to make sure the headlines are correct.”_

_“I said drop your wand, Lestrange!”_

_“And I’m telling you I will, if you’ll just stop calling me that!”_

_“Fine—Black! Drop your wand.”_

_To Hermione’s surprise the dark witch did._

_“See? That wasn’t so difficult, was it Mudblood?”_

_Hermione quickly pocketed the wand and lunged at her then, slamming the woman into the ground and shoving her own wand roughly against her throat. If war had done anything for Hermione, it’d made her more ruthless._

_“What are you doing here, you miserable bitch?” Ruthless, a little stronger, and a lot less discriminatory with her words._

_“Aww, the little Mudbaby has claws,” Bellatrix cackled, seemingly unbothered by Hermione gaining the upper hand. “I could ask you the same question. What are you doing out here at this time of night, hmm? I never took you for a rule-breaker.”_

_Hermione didn’t really know how to answer that; she wasn’t sure why she’d wandered into the woods in the first place, other than that the castle walls were stifling and she’d needed some space to think. She’d meant to go sit by the lake, maybe to watch the stars and maybe to cry a little, as she’d done many nights since returning to Hogwarts, but something had made her keep walking, until she’d ended up in the Forbidden Forest and run smack dab into the Dark Lord’s Last and Best Lieutenant herself._

_Hermione settled on saying nothing, choosing instead to glare at Bellatrix until the older witch rolled her eyes._

_“Ugh, fine,” Bellatrix acquiesced. “If you must know, I came here because I’m apparently too much of a fucking coward to slit my own wrists. I’ve been trying for weeks now—you’d get a kick out of it if you saw me, I’m sure.”_

_Hermione’s grip faltered. “What?”_

_“I figured some beast in this forest could rip me apart and do the work for me—if you or whatever poor excuse for security is wandering around this bloody school didn’t find me first.”_

_“I will gladly kill you.” Hermione bit out, fervor renewed, shoving her wand harder into the woman’s neck. She felt Bellatrix’s heart begin to race beneath her tattered robes; she was surprised the witch had one of those._

_“Lovely. Get to it then.” And when Bellatrix closed her eyes to wait for the killing curse that would end her life, she looked oddly at peace._

_But the curse never came._

_Bellatrix waited, and waited, and waited, until she finally let out a frustrated breath and opened her eyes once more to see Hermione staring down at her with an unreadable expression. The young witch’s weight still pinned her to the ground, the wand still dug forcefully into the base of her neck._

_“Don’t tell me you don’t have it in you, muddie.” Eyes narrowed in challenge. As if she was daring the girl to chug a pint rather than kill a person._

_Still, Hermione didn’t move. Couldn’t._

_“C’mon, pet. Where’s that famous Gryffindor temper? Why don’t you look down at your arm for some inspiration?”_

_When Hermione smacked Bellatrix square in the jaw, she drew blood._

_The dark witch cackled gleefully. Again._

_“You evil fucking cow,” Hermione’s whispered viciously, “how dare you show your face here?”_

_“Yes, yes, exactly. And you’ve got me right where you want me, all that fun stuff. I couldn’t have made it fucking easier for you. Now will you just do it? Kill me. I deserve it, don’t I? Imagine how fantastic you’ll feel.”_

_“I—I will!”_

_“Then do it!”_

_“I said I will! But—“ Hermione swallowed. “But not before you answer some questions.”_

_Bellatrix let out an agitated groan. “Are you fucking kidding me, Mudblood?”_

_The only response she got was a hand shoved roughly against her windpipe while another tugged her up off the ground and forcefully shoved her down onto a mossy log. She watched Hermione in bewilderment as the Gryffindor plopped down unceremoniously next to her, and…_

_And, well, that was how they found themselves sat upon that log for hours, discussing…everything._

_Hermione still held the witch at wandpoint._

_“How did you survive?”_

_“I wasn’t there.”_

_“What?”_

_“I Imperio’d Rodolphus and made him drink Polyjuice Potion.”_

_“Why?”_

_"I wanted him to die in the most humiliating way possible.”_

_“No, I mean—why?”_

_“I knew we would lose.”_

_“How?”_

_“Because the Dark Lord had never tortured me as thoroughly as when he found out what you’d taken from my vault. He was scared. I’d never seen him scared before. Are we done?”_

_“If you’re so eager to die now why didn’t you just let yourself get killed in battle?”_

_“I thought I wanted freedom. I’d been smuggling information to McGonagall in exchange for her helping me disappear once it was all over.”_

_“What?!”_

_"We were friends, a long time ago.”_

_“WHAT?!”_

_“Yes.” Her voice sounded far away._

_“She…offered me an escape, an out, when I was still a student. Before I officially took the Dark Mark. Said she could help me. But I didn’t want her help, until I did. And when I asked the old bat about it again she said she’d never taken it back, can you believe that? What an idiot. She told me the offer still stood. So I took it. And I promised her as long as she hid me and kept Narcissa and Draco out of prison, and—and as long she made sure Andromeda was financially secure, since her husband had died and her foolhardy fucking daughter was surely next to go—then I would do this one thing right.”_

_That had been…unexpected._

_All of it had. Hermione had been surprised at the witch’s candor, at the way she’d answered every question without any hesitation or animosity. Bellatrix hadn’t seemed proud of anything—though she hadn’t seemed entirely remorseful, either. She just seemed empty. Defeated. Alone._

_Hermione had to remind herself who she was talking to, lest she begin feel sympathetic. Because even if this woman wasn’t all bad, she was bad enough._

_“And now?”_

_Lifeless black eyes met Hermione’s._

_“The life I’m living is not freedom. And I never deserved freedom. I deserve death.”_

_“Why?”_

_Hermione should have known better. Should have simply agreed. Should have realized how insane it was to question why a war criminal, why a torturing maniac like Bellatrix Lestrange—Black—deserved to die._

_“What do you mean, why?” And Hermione thought Bellatrix more rational than herself, for a moment. “I’m Bellatrix fucking Black! I’ve done terrible things. I—“_

_“Tortured me.”_

_“Yes. Just because I abandoned the cause in the end doesn’t mean I never believed in it. People rejoiced when they watched me die.”_

_“I’m not sure anyone rejoiced that day. We were too busy mourning.“_

_“That’s just as well. No one mourned me. No one will mourn me now. No one even has to know, unless you want the glory. You could feed my body to the Giants and never speak of it to anyone, I don't really care.”_

_“I—“_

_They both jumped as bushes next to them rustled. Hermione quickly aimed her wand in the direction of the noise and Bellatrix hastily snatched her’s from Hermione’s back pocket, poised to attack._

_(Hermione, later, would wonder why the witch had immediately gone on the defensive if she’d been so willing to die only seconds before)._

_But it was only a deer. Nothing magical, nothing mythical. Just a lone foraging doe. It glanced over at them, as if considering the threat they posed, but kept walking. They watched as it continued on through the clearing, beyond the trees, until it was gone._

_For a moment they were just two people in the woods._

_How far away from the truth that was. How close._

_The moment passed._

_“Right, then. It’s almost sunrise, I’m sure you’re tired, and although this has been a lovely chat,” Bellatrix managed with minimal sarcasm as she tossed her wand back onto the ground, “I’d quite like to die now.” She moved to Hermione, who was still watching the thicket the deer had disappeared into, and grabbed her wrist._

_Hermione jumped again at the witch’s touch, startled out of her reverie. Bellatrix’s hand was cold on her skin as she moved Hermione’s wand to point directly at her heart. Her grip was like iron._

_“Remember, it’s Black.” And she closed her eyes again. Waiting. Anticipating._

_Hermione sighed, not believing her own stupidity._

_“I’m not going to kill you, Bellatrix.” But she hadn’t pulled her wand away._

_“Please.”_

_It was odd to hear that word from Bellatrix, whose eyes were still screwed shut. Hermione would have laughed at how ridiculous it was, if the circumstances were different._

_“Please, Hermione.” Her name coming from that terrible mouth, from those quivering lips made her shiver._

_When Bellatrix opened her eyes again they were shining with—no, Hermione didn’t want to think about it._

_“I’ve never said please in my life and now I’m saying it to a Mudblood, you must understand how serious I am.” It was a broken, breathless plea. “Please.”_

_She tugged on Hermione’s wrist until the Gryffindor was inches away from her face. Hermione peered into black eyes (or were they brown?) and realized she’d never seen Bellatrix look so sane. So human._

_“Kill me. Kill me, please—”_

_“Tomorrow.”_

_Hermione didn't have a plan. But she knew killing Bellatrix wasn’t part of it; at least tonight. Because for the first time since the war had ended, she wasn’t scared. When faced with the most frightening iteration of terror and evil she could think of, the only thing she felt was a spark of thrill. Anger, maybe, and that was surely part of it. But she felt powerful and in control and almost manic in her daring and she wasn’t about to let that go. Not yet._

_“What?”_

_“Meet me here tomorrow, and maybe I’ll kill you.”_

_“What the fuck are you playing at, Mudblood?”_

_“Goodnight, Bellatrix.”_

_She wrenched her hand out of the woman’s grasp and headed to the castle without looking back._

That was how it started. The two of them, meeting nightly in the Forbidden Forest, a couple of confused and lonely souls inexplicably drawn to each other.

They talked. Sometimes they argued. Bellatrix continuously begged for death. Hermione never killed her.

And finally, one night, they fucked against a tree.

Hermione blamed the bottle of Firewhiskey they’d split. Emboldened by the warmth in her stomach and the fog in her brain, she’d leaned in to admire the birdskull pendant sitting just above the swell of Bellatrix’s breasts. She’d brushed it with her finger, intending to ask where it came from and what it stood for, and what was her whole hand doing there now? Why was it inching further down, why were digits disappearing beneath cloth, why was she suddenly very, very warm—why was Bellatrix not pulling away?

She didn’t remember much else after that, beyond lips on her and fingers in her and how they soothed the sting of bark scratching against her bare back.

The next night, though, when she was stone-cold sober, she’d wanted to do it again. So she did. They did.

And pretty soon Bellatrix was sneaking into the castle so that Hermione’s entire wardrobe wasn’t suspiciously covered in moss stains.

(That, and it was growing quite inconvenient for Hermione to become wet every time she accidentally snapped a twig underfoot).

Hermione gave herself permission, that year, to get things out of her system. To be reckless. To cope in the most unsavory of ways. It was exhilarating and dangerous and exactly what she’d needed—if she could survive a monster in her bed, she could survive anything.

But she knew it wasn’t sustainable in the long run.

_“How long do you intend to keep visiting me like this?” She asked one night, between bouts, twirling her fingers in luxurious black locks. Bellatrix sighed contentedly into her chest, where she’d been nestled comfortably, drifting in and out consciousness. She didn’t bother opening her eyes._

_“When do you intend on killing me?”_

_Hermione paused. Considering._

_“Tomorrow.”_

_Bellatrix yawned. “Then I’ll stop tomorrow.”_

She didn't kill her. They didn't stop.

When she graduated, their arrangement had to change.

Hermione had a half a mind to call it off all together, to stop living her life as if time and consequences did not exist within the comforting illusion and soft-focus reality provided by castle walls, once she’d left them behind. She came close to it, worked herself up before every night they’d spent together, speech prepared and boundaries set until Bellatrix showed up like clockwork with the gall, with the audacity to simply exist as she did. Protests died on her lips at the first wiff of pine, the first sight of corseted curves, at all the effortless ways Bellatrix was Bellatrix, at the thrill that this woman dared to want her, at the sense memory of unspeakable things, and curiously, at the anticipation of the soft arms and not-so-unpleasant companionship in the afterglow.

And just as Hermione couldn’t bring herself to kill the woman, she couldn’t stop herself from being utterly destroyed by her.

They’d compromised and made plans to meet monthly in an abandoned cottage Bellatrix had hidden in for a time in the remote English countryside; any more often than that and people would become suspicious. They’d get caught. It was difficult enough for Hermione to sneak out of The Burrow with everyone watching her like a hawk, concerned she would break at any moment. Which was fair, because she often did.

But she never did with Bellatrix.

And that was the trouble.

Hermione never felt more fearless than when she was in the arms of the woman who’d once haunted her nightmares; she never felt further away from that crumbling shell of a girl who barely made it out of the war alive than when she was on her knees at the alter of the devil.

(On her knees, on her back, on a table, on the floor, against a tree every now and again for old time’s sake).

If Hermione was being honest with herself, she was keen to see what fewer encounters and more time apart would do, if it would make it easier for her to finally let go. She had thought limiting their meetings would shake her out of her stupor, would uncloud her mind, would make her see the woman for who she was and what she’d done—but instead it had the opposite effect. The more time she spent without Bellatrix the more she craved her; not just her body, but her company.

And that scared Hermione more than anything.

In a way, it had worked; she found the bravery she needed to end things in her cowardice. Because Gryffindor or not, Hermione wasn’t brave enough to face the implications of…whatever this was. The feelings. The want. All of it. It wouldn’t do her any good.

So, three months ago, she'd steeled her resolve and met Bellatrix for a final time. They fucked, they talked, they fucked some more, and when morning came Hermione told her unlikely bedmate that it was over. Bellatrix had taken it exceptionally well, which at the time was odd and unexpected, but now made perfect sense, as Bellatrix apparently either hadn’t understood or just refused to take anything Hermione said seriously, because here she was, in Hermione’s office, with her smell and her lips and her hands that did terrible and _wonderful_ things—

One of which was still clamped over Hermione’s mouth.

Hermione suddenly came to her senses and struggled against it, determined not to fall victim to Bellatrix’s witchy wiles. She had made progress, she was learning to live without the woman (that was a lie, but she would repeat it to herself until it wasn’t), she’d even walked over some crunchy leaves the other day without immediately growing warm with the memory of Forbidden things—and now Bellatrix was ruining all of it.

No. No no no. That wouldn't do.

The older witch just smiled wickedly, enjoying the war of emotions that was surely playing out in Hermione’s eyes and taking her sweet time silencing the room. Hermione couldn’t help the bubbling warmth behind her belly, but she tried her damndest to ignore it.

When all the wards were in place and she was sure no one would hear the inevitable tongue lashing that was about to ensue, Bellatrix finally removed her hand.

Hermione didn't disappoint.

“What in the actual hell, Bellatrix?” She yelled once her mouth was finally free. “What the ever loving fuck are you thinking, showing up at the _Ministry—_ “

But Bellatrix just kissed her.

It was hot, it was needy, it was insistent. It was everything Hermione had tried to forget it was.

For a moment she gave in, moaning and sucking on a pouty bottom lip, consumed by the desire to fall into the woman, forgetting why she’d ever thought there was anything wrong with this in the first place. She felt Bellatrix grin against her mouth in victory as the kiss was reciprocated, and the dark witch practically growled as she shoved her tongue past Hermione’s whimpering lips.

Bellatrix’s free hand found Hermione’s shirt collar and dragged her closer, the angle forcing her mouth open further. God, was it good. Had they always fit together so perfectly? Bellatrix had her pinned against the door and they were breast to breast, hip to hip without an inch of space between them. Their tongues slid together in the most luxurious of ways and Hermione moaned into the witch’s mouth again as she felt Bellatrix’s hand move purposefully down her body, squeezing briefly and almost painfully at her shoulder before sliding over her ribs, her waist, then resting possessively on her hip.

It was intoxicating, the way Bellatrix played her body like it was some type of instrument, the way she invaded her space and made it her own. Made it theirs. It was everything. And Hermione forgot to breathe.

And maybe Bellatrix did too, because when the both finally came up for air, the woman seemed equally as dazed and starved for oxygen.

They took a moment, looking each other in the eye as they caught their breath, bodies still pressed together against the door and Bellatrix still holding Hermione’s hands over her head. The woman’s eyes were dilated with lust as she licked her lips. It was all Hermione could do to not claim that mouth again, to not give in to the all encompassing assault on the senses that was the smell and feel and taste and sight of her—

No! _No._ This was not supposed to happen, she needed to be strong, to resist.

But _god damn _if Bellatrix didn’t know how to make an entrance.__

Hermione let out an agitated breath. This woman would be the death of her. How appropriate, although the timing was off.

"Bellatrix,” she managed, breathless but determined, ignoring the tingles she felt in every spot the woman touched her (which felt like everywhere) with Herculean effort. “What are you doing here?”

“You haven’t had two damn minutes alone in over week-and-a-half. It was my only option,” Bellatrix replied matter-of-factly, giving Hermione’s wrists a squeeze and leaning in even further, their noses practically touching.

Hermione blinked. “You’ve been watching me?”

“What was I supposed to do?” Bellatrix pouted. “You’ve stood me up twice now. I had to make sure you hadn’t, I don’t know, died or something stupid like that.” She leaned in for a kiss again, as if that was the end of the conversation.

But Hermione didn’t let her; she turned her cheek before Bellatrix could reach her lips, determined to secure a small victory in the battle against her troublesome desires. Unbothered, Bellatrix just took the opportunity to lick a trail along Hermione’s cheekbone and down to her jaw.

Victory became…less secure.

“I didn’t stand you up.” Hermione huffed, breathlessly. “I told you I couldn’t do this anymore.”

“Yes, well,” Bellatrix murmured against heated skin. “That was all talk.” She began to kiss down Hermione’s neck. “I know you, muddie. You want this.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want—“

Hermione slammed her head back against the door and gasped as Bellatrix sucked at a particularly sensitive spot just above her shoulder.

“What were you saying?” the dark witch grinned up at her after a moment, hot breath tickling what was now a blooming hickey.

“I—I-can’t, Bellatrix.”

But the witch was already focused on her continued journey south, licking and nipping and sucking, paying particular attention to the girl’s clavicle…

“Bellatrix.”

…To the place on her chest where bare skin met shirt-collar...She ripped a button open—

“Bella!”

—and finally groaned in frustration at being interrupted again.

“What?” She looked up to give the girl a withering glare.

“How did you get in here?” And god damn it all, Hermione would get through this by focusing on semantics. It was how she got through most things. Besides, she really did want to know.

“Oh my god, it’s not important.”

“Uh—actually it is,” she insisted, “this is supposed to be the most magically secure place in the country, besides Hogwarts.”

"I got in there, too.” She let go of Hermione’s hands and tangled her fingers in the Gryffindor’s bushy curls, scraping her nails lightly against the girl’s scalp in an attempt to distract her. She played dirty.

“Yes, how?” Slightly breathy, but still insistent; Hermione could be proud of that at least.

“Will you shut up?” And Bellatrix tugged the girl forward by her hair and kissed her firmly, swallowing all sounds of protest.

NO! NO no no no no—yes, just one more time—NO—but yes—

“No!” Hermione yelped once she finally managed to pull away (again, Herculean effort). She grabbed Bellatrix’s shoulders and tried to push the witch off of her—which she immediately realized was a terrible plan. The woman just felt warm and soft beneath her palms and it took every ounce of strength Hermione had to not give into her right then. She flexed her fingers in frustration. Settled for lecture. Played her strengths.

“You’re being reckless! Most people here would kill you on sight.”

“Can’t kill a ghost, darling.”

“Bella—“

“And if they did I wouldn’t mind.”

“I would,” Hermione confessed before she could stop herself. Bellatrix’s eyes darkened. Fingers twisted in Hermione’s hair.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

There it was.

“What does it matter to you anyway? If I’d mind or not?”

“It doesn’t.” Bellatrix’s steady gaze faltered for the briefest of moments.

“Then why are you here?”

A Cheshire grin. “I don’t know. Why are you grabbing my ass like that?”

What?

Sure enough, Hermione realized all too late that her hands had betrayed her. They’d somehow made their way down Bellatrix’s body, obviously completely out of her control, and were now vigorously palming the dark witch’s backside, as if it was the only thing keeping her grounded in reality. Maybe it was.

“Because…”

Because she wanted this. Because much as she didn’t, she did. Because as much as she couldn’t, she had to. Because Bellatrix had come looking for her for whatever reason, and there was something really fucking hot about being wanted so bad.

She sighed a big, long sigh then, and looked up to curse whatever damnable being in the sky was watching over her now. If this was supposed to be a lesson in resisting temptation then she’d failed. She’d failed that night in the Forbidden Forest and she’d failed every night since—even on the nights when it was only her hands and her thoughts keeping her company.

Bellatrix was always on her mind. Bellatrix was always in her skin.

Bellatrix was in front of her now.

“Because it’s a good ass,” Hermione leaned in to murmur against lips, abandoning her resolve and all but admitting defeat.

Just one more time. This one, last time.

“Mmm?” Bellatrix grinned in triumph and pulled her closer, lips ghosting but not quite kissing. The energy radiating off her skin was electric.

“Did you miss it?” Their breath mingled.

Hermione blushed. She had. She really, really had. She’d missed everything about her. But she’d never give Bellatrix the satisfaction of saying that out loud. She settled instead on digging her fingers into the muscle beneath them, satisfied as Bellatrix’s breath hitched and eyes clouded for the briefest of moments.

"Mhm. That's what I thought, little one." And when Bellatrix closed the distance between them again, Hermione didn’t resist. She didn’t want to. She’d never wanted to.

Their mouths met and they began their dance in earnest, as if no time had passed at all.

And it was Bellatrix who moaned this time, as lips and hips began to move slowly against each other. Hermione’s hands were still on her ass as she pulled Bellatrix closer, grinding into her, while Bellatrix’s fingers tangled in Hermione’s hair again in an effort to keep the girl close. The coiling tension in her abdomen that Hermione’d been steadfastly ignoring suddenly set her entire body alight. Their kisses were desperate and frenzied and wet and so, so good and the mere sound of it made Hermione grow warmer between her legs. She needed more. She was in her office, against her door, in the arms of a monster and she needed more. She was pathetic. She was crazy. She didn’t care.

As if reading her thoughts, Bellatrix shoved her thigh between them, and Hermione let out an embarrassingly loud sound at the newfound friction.

“Oh, pet, you really missed me,” Bellatrix pulled away and purred, no doubt feeling how soaked Hermione’s knickers were as she worked her thigh up beneath her skirt.

Again, Hermione found herself embarrassed at how easily and how completely her body responded to Bellatrix—and frustrated at how Bellatrix would play the unaffected pursuant, as if her thigh was not twitching with want as it rubbed up against her, as if the witch was not employing every ounce of her self control to keep from straddling Hermione’s thigh in return.

Hermione glared but couldn’t manage much more, as she was quite overwhelmed by said thigh, and her hips were already moving of their own accord. Her body kept no secrets.

“Tell me, darling,” Bellatrix challenged, grinding her thigh even harder up into Hermione’s heat. “Tell me how much you missed me.”

And Hermione would tell her. That was the game they played. That was the line drawn (and towed, on occasion, but never—not yet—crossed).

But if she was going down in such a humiliating pile of flames then sod it all to hell, she would take Bellatrix down with her.

Instead of answering, she slid a hand from where it had been laying claim to Bellatrix’s (firm, incredible, quite fucking perfect) ass and trailed it along the thigh resting between her legs, all the way up until it dipped past her panties and between her soaking lips. And God—she really was so absurdly wet. She let herself enjoy it for a moment, let her fingers graze her clit in exactly the way she wanted Bellatrix to, in exactly the way she knew Bellatrix would not do until she absolutely begged for it, in exactly the way she knew would make Bellatrix reel with possessive fury at being denied first.

She smirked. She moaned. And she stared straight at Bellatrix as she did so, watching how the witch’s curious black eyes narrowed in confusion, then how they widened in understanding and the predictable selfish indignation, and then…how pupils dilated with raw fucking want as Hermione removed her hand from between her legs to hold it between their mouths.

Her fingers glistened with her own desire. For Bellatrix. For them.

She reached forward to rub them on the woman’s bottom lip.

“This much,” she whispered.

And Bellatrix’s responding growl was deadly. The dark witch slammed her thigh up into wet heat, leaned in to claim Hermione’s fingers and groaned at the taste of her, never losing eye contact as her tongue worked to suck the digits dry, determined to one up her uncooperative charge. Hermione couldn’t stifle a moan of her own, couldn’t help the rocking of her hips against flexing muscles at the sight of wild eyes staring straight into her, at wicked mouth consuming her in a way that was suddenly not enough.

Bellatrix grabbed hold of Hermione's wrist, removed her hand, and kissed her squarely on the lips, forcing the girl to taste herself as mouth resumed its assault anew.

This was their battle; this was their way.

There was no stopping the storm of them.

There never was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't know how she got in there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filth filth filth, my friends. A nice side of feelings but mostly filth. All at the request of theheresto, as my angelic little brain would never think this shit up.

They made quick work of things once all pretense had been abandoned—Bellatrix ripped open Hermione’s blouse and sent buttons clattering to the floor, a fervid look in her eye and a savagery to her touch that hadn’t been there since the first night they’d done this, and Hermione deftly undid the laces of Bellatrix’s corset with practiced ease. She made to rid the woman of her skirt but her hands were smacked away and suddenly there were hands all over her again, a mouth on her freshly bared chest, nails leaving marks on her back and Hermione couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but whimper as Bellatrix pushed her bra up roughly and immediately took a nipple into her mouth. 

The woman groaned and looked straight up at her as she claimed her prize. She licked until she sucked and she sucked until she bit and _it felt so good_ and Hermione moaned and held her there and Bellatrix growled and sucked again and Hermione was so keyed up that if Bellatrix were to touch her any lower she would surely come right then and there—and Bellatrix knew this, of course, she always knew, could always read her mind and body like a book it seemed, so she replaced the thigh between Hermione’s legs with her hand and plunged two fingers in her without warning. 

“Fuck—Bella!” Hermione cried from what felt like the lowest part of herself, and she shuddered, held on to the woman’s neck for dear life, pulling her up from her chest and biting into her shoulder in retribution and _maybe_ also in appreciation.

“Do you like that, little witch?” 

Bellatrix’s throaty chuckle vibrated through her, and she wasted no time filling her all the way up to the knuckle. She immediately set a strong and relentless pace and Hermione ground down on the fingers that impaled her. It was incredible, dizzyingly so, to feel the woman’s long fingers buried inside her again, fucking her, filling her. The sound of it was salaciously wet as it carried and bounced off the drab stone walls.

“Did you miss this too?” She slammed her fingers into wet heat particularly hard for emphasis. Hermione screamed, again. 

“Did you miss the way I fuck you?”

Oh, how she missed it. She missed those hands that ripped screams and tremors right out of her, missed the way Bellatrix knew exactly how to fuck her into oblivion. And now she was here and now she was inside of her, so deep inside of her, and—

_“Yes!”_

Bellatrix rewarded her by quickening her pace. Hermione threw her head back and moaned as she clamped down and rolled her hips even harder.

It felt so good to be in Bellatrix’s arms again after imagining this exact scenario every night since they’d last met, felt so good when her hips met Bellatrix instead of cold air, felt so good to bite into porcelain skin just because she could instead of her own arm to stifle her screams. 

She was sweating, she was riding that hand, and it was Bellatrix there with her, holding her, watching her with a hungry and possessive gaze, biting her lip unconsciously and taking in shallow breaths as she did so. It made Hermione’s heart flutter, made her walls clench around long, curling fingers. 

“Bella, ohmygod—”

She was going to come. Hermione was going to come humiliatingly quickly, against the door, the door to her tiny office where nothing ever happened, and if papers rustling became her new twigs snapping then Hermione really would kill Bellatrix, because she’d never get any work done again. 

But killing her would have to wait (as it always did), because this little death was priority. 

“I’m going to—I’m going to— _Bella_ —”

Her sounds were getting increasingly desperate and high-pitched. 

“God, you’re so fucking close aren’t you? I can feel it, dirty girl.”

Bellatrix hitched Hermione’s leg up around her waist and they both groaned at the new angle, at how those fingers hit her so deeply, so perfectly. Hermione gushed at the way Bellatrix’s eyes flashed with want as she drove her hand more relentlessly into her cunt, palm hitting her clit in just the right way. Hermione was going to _come—_

“Do you want to come? Should I let you come?”

“Yes! Yes—”

“Then ask me nicely.”

“Bella—Bella please! _Please let me come, please—”_

She could feel it, she was already tensing, she arched her back and held onto Bella with all she had—

“No.”

And suddenly she was empty and the heat against her body was gone and she nearly fell into a pile on the floor at the abrupt loss of contact. 

_"Bella_ —what?” Hermione practically sobbed. She couldn’t handle games, not after this long. She had been so close. So, so close. “Please, no, no no _no—”_

She grasped at Bellatrix, trying to bring the woman back to her, but her hands only met air as Bellatrix stepped just out of reach.

The woman peered down at her with a peculiar, unidentifiable look in her heavily hooded eyes, and Hermione was struck dumb for a moment with the intensity of her gaze as she slowly looked Hermione up and down, taking in her ravished state: half undressed, skirt hiked up to her waist, knickers pulled to the side, blouse unbuttoned and bra shoved above her breasts. Her thighs were covered in wetness. 

Hermione felt self-conscious under that inscrutable stare, delirious and still half out of her mind from the ache between her legs and the tension that consumed her. She almost felt like crying. 

_“Bella—”_

“You know, when I watch you I see a lot of things,” Bellatrix intoned, as if Hermione hadn’t even spoken, as if they hadn’t just been rutting quite frantically against a door only seconds ago. 

When Black eyes finally swept up to meet hers again, the look in them was deadly. 

Hermione shivered; Hermione tightened around nothing. 

“Please, please, I was so close—” 

“I know.” Her voice was low but her tone was frighteningly casual. She took her time as she spoke. 

“I see you touch yourself at night once the Weasle girl is asleep,” Bellatrix continued. 

How had she—?

“Is it me you’re thinking about, dirty girl?”

Hermione’s throat was suddenly very, very dry. It was difficult to put a string of thoughts together, let alone words. She looked down and away from Bellatrix for a moment, trying to get her bearings. But Bellatrix grabbed her chin roughly and forced her gaze back up to her own. 

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” Hermione barely managed, overwhelmed by the feeling of Bellatrix finally touching her again. She let her eyes flutter shut, but felt fingers dig threateningly into her face as she did so. 

“Look at me.”

She did. The woman was as fierce and fiery as ever. 

“Are you sure it’s not that ginger moron? Has he touched you, darling?”

“What? No—”

Bellatrix considered her answer for a moment, then finally let go of her. But she still pinned her against the door with the force of her steely, unwavering stare, daring her to even try to move. Hermione knew better, and didn’t.

She swallowed and tried not to whimper as the witch began to peel away the corset that hadn’t quite made it off of her body despite their earlier fumbling. She had no idea where this was going and was simultaneously terrified and excited. 

"Do you want him to?"

Corset landed haphazardly on the floor. Black top followed. Eyes never left hers. 

“Of...of course not,” she barely choked out, small and strangled. Hermione was surprised she could form words when faced with the sight of Bellatrix’s glorious bra-clad breasts right in front of her, barely contained by flimsy black lace and absolutely _begging_ to be touched, licked, bitten—

“Of course not,” Bellatrix repeated. She reached back to unclasp her bra and Hermione felt faint.

“You like them a little more exotic, don’t you?” 

A scrutinizing tilt-of-head as one strap fell ever-so-slowly off of a creamy shoulder. 

Two straps. 

Hermione was dripping down her thighs, breathing shallowly.

“You prefer a little more…”

She let the bra fall down to the floor with the rest of her clothing. 

_“…je ne sais quoi.”_

Hermione licked her lips. 

They were better than she remembered; better than she imagined with her own hand between her legs at night as memory slowly blurred with time. Beautiful. Perfect. Round and rosy and so much more ample than her own, and they were right there, after what felt like so long Bellatrix’s naked chest was _right there,_ her nipples growing to peaks in the cool office air, and Hermione _knew_ Bellatrix was doing this on purpose, torturing her with distance when she wanted nothing more than to claim them with her mouth, to put an end whatever ridiculous game Bellatrix was playing. She lurched forward, unsteady and lightheaded, but with every intention of making Bellatrix hers again.

Bellatrix stopped her with a single finger and gently pushed her back into the door. Fire gave way to the coldest of ice. Nostrils flared. 

“I see the way you look at the Veela.” 

Hermione froze and her heart dropped to her gut. Did Bellatrix really think…? 

She was quickly distracted, though, as Bellatrix began to lightly trail her nails down her torso. She resisted the urge to close her eyes this time. Barely. 

“W-what?” 

Lower…

“Don’t play dumb, dear. Not with me.”

Lower…

“I-I-don’t—” 

Lower still.

“Quite handsy, that one.”

A moan.

“Bella…”

The hand stopped, resting just above the hem of Hermione’s underwear.

“I’ll admit she’s pretty.”

_“Bella, please…”_

“Attractive even. But really, pet? A married woman? I never pegged you for a home-wrecker.”

“I would _never,”_ Hermione bit out with all the contempt she could muster in her humiliatingly flustered state. How dare she even imply it, how dare she think Hermione so callous and scheming, so vile to do such a thing. 

Nails dug threateningly into her abdomen and black eyes flashed.

“I’m sure you would’ve said that about sleeping with a death eater, yet here we are.”

That was fair. 

And Hermione regretted lapsing into defiance the moment Bellatrix’s hand left her. But she regretted it less as Bellatrix reached back again to undo the buttons of her heavy black skirt. Hermione’s eyes followed it down as it fell and pooled around her feet, then raked her gaze back up smooth calves and strong thighs. 

She gasped; Bellatrix wasn’t wearing any underwear. Her slit was ready and glistening. But more than that—

There were straps. Leather straps. Fastened tightly around the swell of milky white hips. They dug into Bellatrix’s skin in the most tantalizing of ways as she bent over to retrieve something from the pocket of her skirt...

And when the dark witch stood back up with a simple black dildo in her hand, Hermione’s legs almost gave out beneath her. 

“Tell me, pet,” Bellatrix cooed, snapping the toy into place between her hips. She stared Hermione straight in the eye as she rubbed the length of it with the wetness on her fingers—

Hermione’s wetness.

“Does she make your pussy wet like I do?”

Hermione was slack-jawed and quite unable to think or speak or do much of anything. 

They’d been adventurous in the bedroom but they’d never done…this. She hadn’t ever thought about it, hadn’t even known she’d wanted it until right now. And God, how she wanted it. How she clenched in anticipation. How she trembled at the look of pure lust and possession in Bellatrix’s eyes as she slowly, so slowly, closed the distance between them and lifted Hermione’s leg at the knee. Hermione’s cunt was wide open and she could feel the cold air mingle with the heat of Bellatrix’s body as she slowly inched toward her. 

“Answer me, darling.”

They were sharing air again, Bellatrix was looking down at her as the toy brushed at the flood of wetness between her legs, taunting, teasing up and down the length of her, so close to exactly where she wanted it. Hermione couldn’t breathe.

“Does she?”

Rubbing, now. The tip right outside her entrance. Strong hands roughly flipped her so she was flush and face first against the door.

_“Does she?”_

Hermione never stood a chance.

“No,” she cried.

And she screamed Bellatrix’s name when the woman finally, _finally_ thrust into her. 

The next few second burned white-hot and she lost track of time as she got used to the feeling of Bellatrix buried inside of her. 

It was a shuddering kind of pleasure—searing, all-consuming, almost painful, and Hermione felt it radiate throughout her entire body. She was full. Stretched. Impaled in the most perfect way. Bellatrix was deep and still inside of her and it was silent, for a second, as both of them adjusted. Her face and hands were against the door and the world was hazy and she barely heard Bellatrix as she moved her hair out of way and pressed a kiss to her neck.

“That’s right, little darling.” It was savage and hot on her skin. “Because you’re _mine.”_

Hermione trembled. She was. No one could ever take her like this and get away with it. No one could make being so debased feel so _good and right._

Bellatrix was entirely in her and Bellatrix was entirely against her, tits pillowed into shoulder blades and face in the crook of her neck. She scratched harsh lines down her back, wicked fingers flinting sparks onto skin all the way down to Hermione’s hips and Hermione wanted them to catch, to set her ablaze, to burn. All that mattered was right here. On her and in her. 

Hermione craved movement. Needed it. Needed her. 

“Aren’t you?”

She always had been. 

_“Yes.”_

Bellatrix grabbed onto those hips and forced them down onto the toy with all the strength she had (and God was the woman small but mighty) and they both cried out at the completion, at the fiery feel and soaking sound of it. No more teasing. No more waiting. Bodies moved and bodies took. They needed this. 

It wasn’t soft and it wasn’t gentle. Bellatrix was strong and sure and steady and she _took._ She took and she took and she took. Hermione groaned, low and guttural, and Bellatrix put even more force behind the rolling movement of her hips, slamming Hermione down so hard that the toy disappeared entirely into her. 

Hermione could do nothing but give. Give and let. Keen and wet. 

This was—this was something, this was everything. Hermione had never felt this whole or completed before—and it wasn't so much the dildo but the way Bellatrix wielded it. Wholly and unapologetically. Passionately and perfectly. The sounds she brought out of Hermione were sinful and the girl began to pant with every slowly quickening thrust.

“Do you like this?” Bellatrix leaned to whisper hotly in her ear. Her voice was raw and sex-heavy and Hermione clenched at the sound of it. _“Mon petit chou, vous aimez la façon dont je te baise?”_

“Yes!” Hermione sobbed, “yes yes yes—”

Bellatrix stepped up the pace and force in reward, wrapping her arms around Hermione’s waist and pulling the girl into her as if there was even room for them to be closer. Hermione’s eyes rolled back into her head as Bellatrix licked a line up her spine and it was _all so much._

_“Peut-elle faire cela pour vous?”_

It felt like she was claiming her, taking her in a way that she’d never done. There was something frantic in the way she fucked her, as if she was desperate to prove a point with every wet and desperate drive toward home. The jealousy, the possessiveness, whatever it was, Hermione could feel it in every thrust and lick and pant and whisper. It was intoxicating to feel so needed, so wanted by her. 

“Bella bella bella bella _bella_ —” she chanted mindlessly, her cheek flat against the door and her eyes watering as Bellatrix licked her ear and moaned right into it.

_"Non. Personne ne peut le faire que je fais—personne ne sera jamais vas te faire encule comme je le fais.”_

So much. This woman was so much and the _sound_ of them—the wet, wet, slapping dirty sound of them was _obscene and so much._

They were frenetic now, feral and fierce and _fucking._ The fucked away the months they’d lost. Bellatrix was fucking her so hard her that her feet were off the ground and her entire weight was held up by strong arms and the shaft that split her open. She was riding up the door and she was screaming and she didn’t care. The pain only intensified the feel of Bellatrix completely buried inside if her, of the way her muscles were cramping in pleasure. 

_"Bella—Bella, please—”_

“Please what, little witch? _Qu'est-ce que tu veux?”_

_“Please don’t stop!”_ Hermione sobbed, keening, mewling, coming apart and together all at once. She thought she would die if Bellatrix left her high and dry again because this was even better than before, better than ever, better than anything she could ever dream of. 

Hermione was close. Again. And from the way the Bellatrix writhed and rubbed against her, it felt like she was too. 

“You’re mine.” The woman whispered vehemently. “Mine— _my beautiful, beautiful girl.”_

Those words hit Hermione all over and she cried out.

_“Yours—”_

“Come for me, my darling. _Laisse moi t'écouter.”_

Bellatrix snaked a hand down the front of Hermione’s body to rub tight circles around her swollen clit while the other palmed a breast and pulled hard on a nipple. Hermione craned her neck to meet Bellatrix in a searing, bruising kiss and she was—she was breaking—unraveling— 

Bellatrix swallowed her cries and claimed her mouth as they fell over the edge together. 

Shuddering pleasure gave way to shuddering release and everything went blurry and Hermione was numb to everything but the feeling of Bellatrix inside of her, driving into her and drawing out every last pulsing white-hot second of this climax. Time stopped and yet went on and on and on and Bellatrix wouldn’t stop kissing the spot where her spine met her neck. 

Hermione’s body was limp. Her skin was damp with sweat and her thighs were quaking. She was pinned between Bellatrix and the door and the woman had entirely sunken into her, had buried her face in Hermione’s bushy curls and was holding her up with strong arms. Her legs were shaking, too. 

After what felt like an eternity, Bellatrix pulled out and Hermione whimpered at the loss.

Bellatrix turned the girl around as roughly as she had the first time. Hermione took in the flush on white cheeks, the labored rise and fall of her chest, how sweat-dampened curls stuck to a worry-creased forehead. The woman’s brow was furrowed and her eyes were full of anxiety. 

Hermione thought she looked startlingly beautiful. 

“I can do what she can do and I can do it better. Never forget that.” 

She was child-like in her petulance. Human in the insecurity she hid beneath it. 

“Bellatrix—”

Resolute in the way she kissed away a discussion she wasn’t ready to have. 

“Come,” Bellatrix ordered once she pulled away, and she tugged Hermione away from the door and toward her desk. 

“Quite sure I just did,” Hermione quipped as she let herself be led. Her head was still spinning and she still ached sublimely inside. 

Bellatrix grinned smugly at her over her shoulder and Hermione couldn’t help the way the corners of her mouth quirked up in response; the woman was adorable in her pompousness. 

Not that she’d ever, _ever_ tell her that.

She lifted Hermione up onto the edge of her small, cluttered desk, and reached past her to clear it off with a quick swipe of her arm. Files and memos and trial transcripts fluttered to the floor. 

“Bella!” Hermione tried to protest, but was silenced with a demanding kiss and the sound of Bellatrix rustling with something—

The straps. The toy. 

She unstrapped them from her hips and before Hermione knew what as happening they were being fastened around hers. 

Bellatrix just smirked at Hermione’s wide-eyed expression and pushed her back onto the desk, and—

“Don’t get used to this.”

—and _sank_ onto the her, with an obscene, drawn out groan—

And Hermione threw her head back and screamed because _she could feel it—_ she could feel it, as if it was an extension of her, she could feel clenching walls and heat around her, as the toy slid wetly, achingly slowly, inch by inch to fill witch on top of her. 

_And Merlin did it feel good._

Oddly good, strangely good, foreignly good—but _good, electrifyingly, staggeringly so, fan-fucking-god-damn-tastic, hot and wet and soft and tight and pulling her in and WHAT? And HOW? And WHY? And YES, YES YES YES—_ and Bellatrix—

—the woman was a wanton vision, hair tumbling, lip bitten, straddled and stretched, her cunt swallowing the toy completely. Her chest was heaving, breasts moving with each breath she took in. Bellatrix stared down at her with a self-satisfied smirk that Hermione would have slapped off of her face if it wasn’t the hottest fucking thing she’d ever seen in her life, and if she was not currently in a pleasure induced paralysis. 

_“F-fuck, Bella— **ohmygod!** "_ She had no words, she had nothing, nothing but this woman and this feeling, which were everything—

“Surprise,” Bellatrix grinned, the most lascivious, predatory, carnal grin. 

And when the woman began to move, all Hermione could do was watch, wide-eyed, and grab desperately at her hips, needing something, anything to ground her. 

The witch went slowly, at first, her hips lifting until only the tip remained inside of her, letting it tease just beyond her entrance and moving gently. Skillfully...too skillfully. 

Hermione found herself wondering briefly who Bellatrix had done this with before, and the thought lit a spark of furious possessiveness within her. But when Bellatrix suddenly impaled herself completely once again, Hermione screamed and nearly blacked out with pleasure, all thoughts of other lovers gone. (For now. A conversation for another time).

Bellatrix, too, threw her head back and groaned as the toy filled her again. She began to grind against Hermione’s core, their wetness mingling, her hips rolling, her hands grabbing the one’s on her hips and moving them to cover her breasts. Hermione squeezed and Bellatrix shuddered when those hands found her nipples and pinched them just the way she liked it. 

“Does it feel good, you filthy thing? To take me like this?” She asked, playing at control even though her heavy breaths forsook her. 

Hermione couldn’t answer, as her brain was still currently misfiring at feeling of being fulfilled in the most unexpected of ways. She tried to convey what words could not, with her hands, with her nails, with the way she worshipped the warm and pliant skin beneath her fingertips.

Bellatrix was not sympathetic; she slapped her. Hermione moaned and turned into the hand that rested on her stinging cheek, whimpering and kissing Bellatrix’s palm in apology as she tried to form coherent thoughts.

“I asked you a question,” Bellatrix growled, and clamped her thighs so hard around Hermione’s hips that it was painful. 

And what had led her here? What had led her to this time and place and state, on her back, on her desk, in her office, inside _Bellatrix fucking Black,_ and—and it felt like Bellatrix was giving something to her, a gift, a privilege, and she was so fucked, how could she ever leave this feeling behind, _how could she ever?_ And not just _this_ feeling, but all of them, everything the woman did to her and for her and stoked inside of her, in her cunt and in her chest and—and that must have been Bellatrix’s god damn plan all along, that bitch, and, and—and—

She was done for. 

_“Yes, Bella—yes!”_ Hermione sobbed. 

“Yes what?” The dark witch hadn’t stopped moving, continuing to roll her hips at a teasingly slow pace. 

_“Yes, it feels good, Bella, so fucking good—”_

“Then don’t just lay there, muddie.” Bellatrix breathed. She leaned forward, their bodies flush, their breasts touching, and licked a trail up Hermione’s neck to her ear.

_“Fuck me.”_

Hermione didn’t need to be told twice. 

She thanked God for the surge of exhilaration desire and need that helped her control her body once more, as she raked her nails down the woman’s back and leaned in to bite her neck and thrusted. 

The full body groan that tumbled from Bellatrix’s lips was the most intoxicating thing she’d ever heard. She needed to hear it again. She's wanted to hear nothing else, for as long as she lived. 

She thrust once more. Another groan, hot and full against her ear, and fingers dug into her scalp. 

Again. And again. And they were off. 

They picked up speed and Hermione reveled at the feeling of Bellatrix’s slick walls around her, pulling her in, and she thrust again, and again, and it was _ecstasy_ —for both of them; Bellatrix growled as her little witch began to move with intention and there was no mistaking the desperation in the way she met Hermione’s mouth and kissed the god damn sense out of her. 

Hermione, newly determined, took charge (as much as one could while being ridden down by Bellatrix Black) and sat up to reposition them—

And Bellatrix wrenched her mouth away and her face twisted in surprise and pleasure and Hermione felt powerful because she did that, she caused that, and she wanted to cause it again and forever. 

The woman was in her lap now, sunken completely, entirely onto the toy and their sexes were grinding against each other and Hermione could feel herself moving _so deeply inside of her,_ hitting that sweet spot now, over and over and over.

“Oh _fuck,_ Muddie! Yes! That’s—so good—”

Bellatrix wrapped her legs around Hermione’s torso and her arms around Hermione’s neck and Hermione grabbed the hips on top of hers and slammed them down on her own. Hot walls tightened and clenched around her and Hermione saw stars, and saw _her star,_ her warrior, riding her, so needy for her, so open and enthusiastic in the way she fucked her right back. 

When Hermione reached down to stroke her clit Bellatrix almost fell apart on top of her. Her sounds were no longer deep and guttural—they were becoming high and desperate, and Bellatrix bit her lip and buried her face in Hermione’s neck in an attempt to stifle them. 

But Hermione wasn’t having it. 

She buried her free hand into the witch’s hair and pulled Bellatrix’s face up to look her in the eye. Her pupils were dilated with something Hermione couldn’t identify and those beautiful black eyes burned a fire right through her. 

“Let me hear you. Please let me hear you,” Hermione pleaded.

Bellatrix bit her lip harder and shook her head defiantly. Was she blushing? 

_“Bella.”_

Hermione thrust into her forcefully and moaned and Bellatrix gasped—soundlessly. But Hermione was determined. 

She pinched the bundle of nerves beneath her fingers and—

_“Fuck!”_

Her high-pitched reward. Beautiful and vulnerable and heavenly in its vulgarity. Quintessentially Bellatrix. 

The woman was writhing and urgent under Hermione’s touch, and _she could not stop the sounds now,_ she moaned and moaned and swore and cried out and Hermione moved more tenaciously, taking for once, and she could feel Bellatrix tensing and tightening around her and it was mind-numbingly wonderful.

Hermione wanted nothing more than to watch the woman, to feel the woman come undone on top of her, around her, with Hermione buried inside in this new and thrilling way. She absolutely needed it and needed it now.

She put her entire weight and strength into the roll of her hips and fucked and pinched and rubbed and kissed and worshipped until Bellatrix’s muscles started going rigid, until her face started breaking, until she took one last look straight into Hermione’s eyes then threw her head back and arched her back and _screamed—_

Muscles fluttered and flooded and Hermione felt it and kept her eyes open as long as she could to watch this angelic creature come, before _finally, finally_ following right behind her. 

Sparks burned bright behind her eyes and lit fires on her skin and hips crashed ocean waves against her and she rode them, rode them out as long as she could and as long as Bellatrix would let her. 

Until they collapsed onto the desk in a heap of sweaty, quivering limbs. 

Many minutes later, when breathing slowed and brain function slowly reached equilibrium, Hermione finally opened her eyes to find Bellatrix was staring down at her with a curious expression. She was flushed and thoroughly ravished and beautiful. Black eyes (softened, now) studied her intently, and their noses were almost touching. 

“How did you…?” Hermione trailed off and blushed. She was still reeling, still overwhelmed with the intensity and enormity of what had just happened and couldn’t really think of anything else to say. Bellatrix grinned devilishly. 

“This old thing?” She clenched around the toy and rolled her hips and Hermione’s eyes slammed shut. 

“Ahhh, Bella—no more, I can’t!”

Bellatrix smirked but thankfully took pity on her and slid ever-so-slowly up and off of it, her breath hitching as she did so. Hermione whined at the feeling, as she had become accustomed to being buried deep within the woman, and to the slick heat pulsing tightly around her. She missed it already.

She didn’t have much time to mourn the loss, though, because Bellatrix quickly slid down her body and licked a quick line from the base to the tip of the toy and god damn her!

“Bella! Please, I’m dying—” but the woman just took the whole thing into her mouth and sucked and looked straight up at her in _the lewdest way and—_

_“BELLA, YOU’RE AN ANIMAL. PLEASE.”_

Bellatrix cackled at that and gave the tip a final, feline lick before mercifully unstrapping it from Hermione’s hips…

And crawling back up to hold it in front of Hermione’s mouth. Her eyes said challenge and her grin said she was quite enjoying Hermione’s suffering. 

Hermione was not about to lose this game, though. She surged forward and wrapped her lips around it, groaning at the taste of Bellatrix that still lingered, lapping until none of it was left, staring straight at the woman as she did so, revelling in the way Bellatrix’s lips parted and her breath quickened and her smug expression fell away.

When she was finished, Hermione smirked right back at up at Bellatrix, who growled, threw the toy onto the floor and leaned down to capture her lips, tasting herself on them. 

The kiss was more languid than before—slower, more intimate now that their more immediate desires had been satisfied. Tongues caressed and lips moved and mouths sighed softly into each other. Hermione loved how Bellatrix was so much more open and generous with her affections in post-coital bliss. It was temporary, of course, but her touch would go from raging fire to softly smoldering embers and Hermione couldn’t get enough of the gentle way it warmed her. 

“I had a lot of time on my hands once you decided to abandon me,” Bellatrix said softly once they finally broke away from each other, answering Hermione’s earlier question. 

Despite her words and despite her pout, she tenderly brushed a sweaty lock of hair off of Hermione’s forehead and leaned down kiss her temple. It was light and almost…sweet. 

“And I have a lot more where that came from. So…so if you’re bored, or tired of me, or whatever it is, don’t worry.”

There it was again: the self-consciousness, the insecurity. If only she knew. 

Hermione had to laugh at the absurdity of it all: her big, bad witch was so insecure, so desperately possessive and prideful that she’d gone to quite ridiculous (although, quite satisfying) lengths to prove her worthiness. To win her back. When the only reason she’d lost her was because she’d had her too much. 

“What?” The dark witch demanded testily, decidedly unamused at whatever direction this was about to head. She seemed surprised, however, when Hermione just pulled her in closer and grinned up at her like an idiot. 

"You’re really, really cute,” Hermione managed between giggles. Bellatrix pulled away, cheeks reddening.

“Alright,” she grimaced. “we’re done here.” She tried to pull away but Hermione wrapped her arms and legs around her until she couldn’t move. 

“No, c’mere.”

Hermione rolled them until the were both on their sides and just held the struggling woman. Didn’t let her go. Burrowed her face right into her hair and breathed in her scent until Bellatrix let out a half hearted sigh and gave in. Pulled Hermione into her. Breathed her in right back. Hid a smile against a knowing neck.

_It had taken a few nights, initially, for them to do anything else after furiously fucking against the tree (their tree, as they had affectionately begun to call it), beyond pretending they weren’t watching each other as they got dressed again and then silently, awkwardly parting ways._

__

__

_Until one night, when Bellatrix had grabbed Hermione’s arm and tugged her toward the center of the clearing. She’d cast a cushioning charm on the ground and plopped right down with Hermione in tow, summoned her heavy cloak, laid it over them and…pulled Hermione close to her. Buried herself into every nook and curve of the girl’s body. Tangled cool legs with warm ones. Breathed in Hermione’s scent then sighed contentedly into the heated skin of her neck._

__

__

_It was odd and unexpected._

__

__

__"Not a word,”_ was the terse response Hermione’d gotten after peering down at the woman in utmost confusion. The words bristled but Bellatrix looked soft and serene as she closed her eyes and smiled so slightly Hermione almost missed it. Except she hadn’t. _

__

__

_Hermione had thought herself crazy for not killing the death eater when she’d begged for it, then for meeting her regularly, then for falling into bed with her the first time, and more than all of that for doing it again and again._

__

__

_But none of that compared to the feeling of absolute insanity that struck her when she’d blushed and smiled, too._

__

__

_She was done for. Out of her mind. She was grinning like an idiot at a _death eater,_ who would probably hex her if she saw her face. She was mental. Clinical. She didn’t care. _

__

__

_She’d nestled herself into the woman. Cuddled right back. And from then on, that was that._

__

__

_They would finish and fall right into each other._

__

__

_Bellatrix was cat-like and insistent in the way she endeavored to fit every inch of her body against Hermione’s, concerned entirely with her own comfort and quite often just laying down completely on top of her._

__

__

_Hermione let her, because Hermione didn’t mind. In fact, she thought it quite adorable, and she enjoyed being enveloped by the essence of her._

She enjoyed it now, as Bellatrix held her close and looked up at her. Her expression was unguarded, but intense. Always intense. 

“Do you still not want to do this anymore?”

Hermione sighed. 

“What’s ‘this,’ Bellatrix? What are we doing?”

“It’s just…what it is. It’s not anything,” Bellatrix replied warily. “It can’t be.”

Hermione felt silly when her heart broke a little. Because she wanted this. She did—but not this way. Not anymore. She couldn’t bear it. 

“It can’t be—but is it?” She needed to know. 

Bellatrix studied her for a long, hard moment. Hermione wished she was practiced in Legilimency because the woman’s face gave absolutely nothing away. Finally:

“Do you want it to be?”

“Do you?”

“I don’t exist,” was Bellatrix’s quiet non-answer.

“What if you did?” Hermione dreamed. Hermione hoped. Bellatrix, it seemed, considered. Searched her eyes for something. Warred with herself. But…

Looked away. Raised hackles. Ready to deflect, to deride, to distract from anything resembling humanity or vulnerability, now that they had fucked and she was in her right mind again. 

“Don’t be silly,” she scoffed, and sent Hermione a cutting glare. It lacked venom and was so obviously half-hearted that Hermione could only sigh. At herself, at the stubborn witch in front of her. At all of it. 

Hermione couldn’t stand Bellatrix, when she got this way. Couldn’t look at her. So she stared absently at a flawless, creamy-white shoulder instead. 

“Are you going to be a good little girl and meet me like we planned?” 

When she didn’t get an answer, Bellatrix took the Gryffindor’s chin in her hand lifted it gently until they were eye to eye. 

“Hermione.” 

Hermione shivered, as she always did, when Bellatrix said her name. Bellatrix used that power like a weapon. 

“Am I going to have to hunt you down again?”

But there was something about the look in her eyes. They glinted with something Hermione had never seen before, despite all the time they’d spent together; something swirled beneath the surface, something long-dead sparkled faintly beneath the years and years of everything. 

And suddenly Hermione realized what it was. 

Bellatrix wanted. She was allowing herself to want, to desire and…to look forward to something. Something that was not death. 

She didn’t want to die anymore. The woman finally longed for something beyond her own demise and that something was Hermione. Of all things, of all people, Bellatrix longed for _her._ She hoped for _her._ And she didn’t even realize it yet. 

Hermione was overwhelmed, for a moment. 

“I—”

But there was a knock on the door before she could finish. 

“Hermione? Harry and I are going to lunch, you want to join us?” 

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Hermione froze, suddenly remembering where she was and who she was with and what they’d done—and Ron, at her door, while she was naked on her desk with an equally as naked Death Eater—

Whose eyes had darkened and who scowled quite menacingly at the door, perturbed at the interruption.

“’Mione, you in there?”

“Uh. One moment!”

The knocking continued. She was an idiot; she’d forgotten about the silencing spell. She leapt across the room and began to frantically search for her wand, unsure where it had ended up during their…activities. 

Bellatrix, of course, made no move to get dressed or help. She just watched as Hermione flitted about the office, throwing on her clothes haphazardly as she found them on the floor and cursing loudly when she realized her blouse was now entirely buttonless—and she needed her bloody wand to fix it!

“Looking for this?” Bellatrix drawled lazily. Hermione turned and was caught off guard at the sight of Bellatrix on her side, arching her back and stretching the length of her beautiful _naked_ body and holding her wand hostage—

More knocking. “Hermione?”

What was wrong with her? She couldn’t get distracted, not right now. She’d just had two earth-shattering orgasms and would probably be walking sideways for the next two days, how could she possibly be getting worked up _again—_

“No. No no no please—give me my wand and _please get dressed, please.”_

But Bellatrix wanted her answer. She stared Hermione down and Hermione knew she wouldn’t get her wand back until she gave one. 

She sighed, for what felt like the umpteenth time that day. 

“Tomorrow. Meet me tomorrow.” 

And for the first time it wasn’t a threat, or a bargaining chip, or something she didn’t want to face. 

It was a promise. Despite herself. Despite everything. 

Bellatrix’s eyes glimmered. Her expression was otherwise schooled but her lips quirked minutely, almost undetectably. 

“Tomorrow,” she repeated, and threw Hermione her wand. 

Hermione didn’t let herself dwell on any of it, immediately undoing the wards then grabbing Bellatrix’s corset and skirt off the floor and throwing them at her in a heap. She heard the indignant huff but didn’t see it, as she was otherwise occupied tidying her quite destroyed office.

“Hermione, are you okay?”

“Sorry—One moment! I’ll be right out!” 

When she turned around to finish getting dressed, Bellatrix was gone. 

But she lingered in the air.

And they had tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how she got out of there, either. 
> 
> Some useful French translations (I tried my best with Google Translate):
> 
> _Mon petit chou, vous aimez la façon dont je te baise?:_ My little darling, do you like the way I fuck you?
> 
> _Peut-elle faire cela pour vous?:_ Can she do this to you?
> 
> _Non. Personne ne peut le faire que je fais—personne ne sera jamais vas te faire encule comme je le fais:_ No. Nobody can do what I do—no one will ever fuck you like I do.
> 
> _Qu'est-ce que tu veux?:_ What do you want?
> 
> _Laisse moi t'écouter:_ Let me hear you.


End file.
